“There’s something—forgive me, my lord—there’s something captivating about your eyes, as if a color beyond color shines there, but your halo’s intact, if that’s what you were worried about.”
Kip took heart from that, and ate his breakfast as she went about her duties, finally leaving to tell the others he was up and well.
Then it occurred to him that if he broke the halo in paryl or chi, there were only a few people in all the world who would be able to tell, and none of them were on this boat.
He could be a madman already and not know it.
Cruxer came in alone. “Breaker,” he said, nodding his head. “We thought it best not to overwhelm you by coming in all together.”
“Thanks. Can you, uh, tell me what happened out there?” Kip asked.
“How much do you remember?”
“Right up to where the water tornado thing was going to explode under the galley.”
“That was the exciting part,” Cruxer said. He cleared his throat. “Well, it did explode—half on each side of the galley, and it kept trying to twist back together. Two enormous spinning waterspouts. And… somehow… you held them apart until the galley sailed through. The light storm passed as fast as it came. All’s been well since then. You saved the ship and everyone on it.” He cleared his throat again. “A, um, a couple of the sailors tried to worship you.”
“Ha!” Kip said. “Funny.”
Cruxer didn’t share his amusement. “I was serious. They were, too.” He chewed on his lip. “Breaker, I saw you sink the Gargantua. This was… Breaker, I froze up. I’ve never frozen up in the face of danger before. Tisis was the one who saved you. Shamed all of us.”
“Because she’s a girl?”
“Maybe a little. But mostly because we’re Blackguards. We’re supposed to be there for you first. We failed you.”
“You got there in time,” Kip protested. He remembered that much now. The hands on him, the yelling.
“We got there second.”
“You got there soon enough.”
“It could have—you almost fell in the—”
“What did Commander Ironfist say about past mistakes?” Kip asked.
Cruxer grimaced. “Look at your mistakes long enough to learn from them, then put them behind you.”
Kip lifted his eyebrows.
“Oh, shut up,” Cruxer grumbled. He picked at a fingernail for a bit. “Tisis is saying some things that have the squad uncomfortable, Breaker.”
“What’s that?”
“I guess you told her we’re leaving? She’s been insisting that she’s going with us. She says you told her she could.”
“I did.”
“But you told me we were leaving her.”
“And then I changed my mind. I had to.”
Cruxer’s displeasure had an almost physical weight to it. “Breaker, we’ve got to figure something out right now. I know I said that you’d be in charge when it made sense for you to be in charge, and I’d be in charge the rest of the time, but that isn’t working. I can’t handle the uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty is part of—”
“Uncertainty is part of your world. Not mine. When I give orders, I have to know they’re going to be followed. Or when someone tells me something, I have to know it’s the truth.”
That stung.
“It’s not a lie when someone tells you what they think is the truth and is wrong. Plans change. Anyway, heck, call her an honorary member of the Mighty now. She did save me,” Kip said. “There, see? The Mighty didn’t fail now. She was just the fastest of us to react.”
Cruxer grimaced. It was, Kip thought, a fairly nice dodge to save face. But Cruxer wasn’t interested in dodges. Regardless, he let it go. “It’s not about that. It’s not only about that, anyway. Breaker, I propose we use a different template for our squad.”
“And what’s that?”
“I say we mirror how the Prism and the commander of the Blackguard interact. It’s close to what we have now. As above, so below, right? You decide where we go—though I give input and register any disagreements—and I keep you alive when we go there. You’re the boss, but we don’t keep each other from doing our work.”
As above, so below. But for Kip to step into that place, that low mirror of the Prism, was highly suggestive of something else. “I’ve never claimed to be the Lightbringer, Crux.”
“That uncertainty I can live with.”
“I want you to know, I think Tisis can help us, Cruxer. I wouldn’t ask to bring her along if she couldn’t.”
“I’m not convinced. And if we get her killed, her sister goes from a very tenuous ally to a mortal enemy. But you don’t need to convince me. You don’t need to ask to bring her along at all. Simply give the order… my lord.”
Chapter 17
Biggest day of my life, and all I can think about is how I have to pee.
When the complement of full Blackguards had joined Teia and the other nunks in their vigils before dawn, the one-handed new Blackguard trainer Samite had thoughtfully brought Teia and a few other Archers-to-be cups of kopi, still steaming from the kitchens. Teia had only sipped the stimulant before, and hadn’t liked the taste, so she’d never had a full cup.
This morning, she’d drained it with gusto.
Now she had to pee, and she felt jittery. With the burden of Quentin’s life and death off her shoulders, she’d then had something quite like the vigil she’d always hoped to have: she’d wept and then sworn at Orholam for all her problems, then beseeched him for forgiveness, then begged him for guidance, then been at peace, and then wept again. She’d had a sense, for some fragile tender minutes, that she wasn’t alone, that she wasn’t forsaken, that she had purpose, that he knew her. He saw her. He cared. He saved. It had been a night overfull.
Like my bladder.
Orholam, let me not wet my new blacks.
Fifty Blackguards had gathered to stand in rows with her and five other nunks on the roof of the Prism’s Tower, saluting the sun as it rose. Commander Fisk turned as soon as the sun had barely cleared the horizon. It was going to be a busy day for all of them, so the ceremony would be abbreviated at best. Not that Teia was complaining.
“Adrasteia Gallaea’s daughter,” Commander Fisk said, after greeting each of the others. Teia hadn’t heard her mother’s name since the day she’d been signed over to Blackguard training. She didn’t want to think of herself as that creature’s daughter, though slaves were traditionally known by their matronymic. “The Blackguard is an ancient order, heavy with honor. We were born out of fealty and failure, out of the honor of Lucidonius’s thirty mighty men and the shame of the satrapies failing to protect his widow and our second Prism, Karris Shadowblinder. Upon her death, those who remained of the thirty organized this guard to protect the Prism, and, in the last extremity, to protect the Seven Satrapies from a Prism.”
A quiet descended, the full Blackguards contemplative, the newest ones confused. Protect the satrapies from the Prism?
Then a crack like a musket shot rang out. Fifty pairs of hands went to weapons. Fifty pairs of eyes were covered with colored spectacles.
But it was only the propped-up replacement door falling to the ground as someone came up to the roof.
Karris Guile, Karris White Oak, now Karris White, stood in the opening for a moment to let her former brethren relax, then stepped outside. She wore the white dress of her station, but one newly made, cut to her slim, muscular figure. The points of her high collar were sharpened, reminiscent of swords, and all her accents were bright silver, not gold. The dress itself was lean cut, and if Teia didn’t miss her guess, infused with luxin, as were the Blackguards’ blacks. As much as a dress could be, it was one in which the former Blackguard could move. It was steel femininity, and Teia immediately recalled that just days ago, when they’d tried to throw her off the testing platform, this woman had kicked two big men to their deaths without hesitation, remorse, or much effort.
Th
e Blackguard Karris White Oak had been small, fast, and fierce.
The only thing small about Karris White was her frame.
As the Blackguards saluted her and her attending Blackguards fanned out onto the roof, she said, “If I may, Commander?”
“It’s an honor, High Lady,” Fisk said. “Please do.”
Karris addressed them somberly. “Prisms don’t break the halo like the rest of us, but they do go mad after their allotted time. Some of them. Others can’t handle what the Freeing demands of them. Others, when the end of their term comes, and they know they’re going to die, try to escape.”
Teia had never heard of that. She saw some of the others were rattled by it, too. Who could imagine being called upon to kill a Gavin Guile?
Then she realized she hadn’t heard of it because the Blackguard was that competent. Prisms who shamed themselves by breaking their oaths and trying to flee were always quietly killed. Word never got out. Who could escape the Blackguard?
Teia asked, “But how do they know that they’re going to die? If Gavin Guile made it to his third term, how would another Prism not know if they might not have a second or a third term themselves? Or is that it? They don’t know, so they flee?”
“They know. Somehow they know.” But Karris looked troubled, as if there were parts of this she didn’t understand, either.
Orholam have mercy, had that been in the papers Teia had helped steal?
“Do we know, too?” another asked. “Is there some warning?”
Commander Fisk said, “The Colors and the Magisterium will tell you when it’s likely. But it’s always possible. None of the Blackguard now serving have ever had to hunt a Prism, and we pray we never do, but ours is the long watch. Do you have any other questions before we continue?”
Teia shook her head.
Karris said, “Your duty is hard, but this I promise you: you shan’t be asked to betray your honor.”
It was an answer to the question Teia couldn’t ask with all the others there: will my attempted infiltration of the Order of the Broken Eye compromise my oaths?
But it wasn’t an exact answer, was it?
I won’t have to betray my honor, but I may have to break—or appear to break—my oaths. Would Karris thread so narrow a needle’s eye with her words?
Karris White Oak wouldn’t have. Would Karris White?
Why had Karris come up here? To bond the Blackguards further to her, to wish a former pupil well, or to make sure that Teia did take the oaths?
All of the above, no doubt. We are warriors, and this is our lot.
“Commander,” Karris said, “may I continue with you?”
“We would be honored, High Lady. Though one may be called to other duties, one never ceases being a Blackguard,” he said, and then he turned to Teia and the others. “The Blackguard forms an unbroken chain extending back to the time of Lucidonius himself. At induction, we recite the stories of our forebears to remind us who we have been, who we are, and to what we should aspire. At the end, we each name a Blackguard who inspires us, a patron whose qualities will help us become the best Blackguard we can be. High Lady White, will you start for us?”
“I remember Karris Shadowblinder, Lucidonius’s wife and widow, and a Prism. Though our order wasn’t established until after her death, it was built on the foundation she laid. Dancer, poet, theatre mummer, and, when times demanded it, finally a warrior-drafter of unmatched ferocity, she swore an oath to marry no man who couldn’t beat her in will, wit, and weapons. Lucidonius failed twelve times, on twelve successive months, until she admitted he at least equaled her in will. He cheated at the contest of wits, drugging her beforehand, which she agreed showed a wit of its own. And last, with weapons, she lost—though some argue that was intentional.
“Karris Shadowblinder would later save Lucidonius’s life three times, and fail on the fourth. Karris is precious to me because the heart of the Blackguard is love. Love for the Seven Satrapies, love for this brotherhood, and in the best of times love for the leader we protect. Karris Shadowblinder reminds me that in this mortal realm, even if we love perfectly, we may fail still.”
The White stepped back.
A tall, shaven-headed Blackguard named Asif stepped forward. “I remember Finer. He was a Blackguard during the time of Prisms Leonidas Atropos and Fiona Rathcore. He struck down the Bandit King in the Battle of Ghost Flats. Handsome, funny, and loved by everyone, it was widely expected that he would one day be the commander of the Blackguard. Instead he went wight and fled. He killed four of his brothers before he could be put down. Finer reminds me of the importance of duty, and that all fame and renown count for nothing if we don’t uphold our oaths.”
His cousin, Alif, stepped forward next. “I remember Commander Ayrad, who sat quiet, judging until the time came to act. In his testing fights, he placed each time last. Forty-ninth at the end of the first week, then thirty-fifth at the end of the second, then twenty-eighth, then fourteenth, and on the last week, he fought from place fourteen to thirteen, thirteen to twelve, twelve to eleven, then to ten, to nine, to eight, to seven, to six, five, four, three, two, one. Never in our history has man or woman fought so many times or won so authoritatively. Because of his intelligence, Ayrad didn’t fight harder, he isolated the weakness of each opponent, and took him or her out efficiently. Later in life, that intelligence would raise him to commander of this hallowed body, and it would save the lives of four Prisms.
“And yet,” Alif said, “yet Commander Ayrad himself would fall to poison. The culprit was never found. Even Ayrad with all his intellect had blind spots, as do we all. I learn from him that we can never, never be off our guard.” He took a step back.
Tlatig, an Archer, stepped forward. She was not a handsome person. Her mouth turned down, eyes squinted, skin blemished, body with fewer curves than the seven towers, only when she picked up a bow did a grace came upon her. She was then a wonder as is a swallow in flight. Surreal, prescient, a walking miracle with a bow. On the training field, Tlatig wore a tiny chemise, tied tight, to show off the knotted muscles of her shoulders and the V of her back.
“I remember Commander Dauntless. She gave up her noble connections and her family’s aspirations in order to serve the Seven Satrapies. She had two dreams, to be a Blackguard and to be a mother, and she sacrificed the latter to be the former. When she retired after a long and storied career—whose details I would tell you had not Commander Fisk asked us to be brief today—she tried to have a family, and, that late in life, she could not. She reminds me of the heavy price of duty, and that our forebears paid it, and lived in honor. Commander Dauntless lived in duty, and died with honor, though it cost her grievously. I remember her, and strive to meet her standard.”
Teia looked at Tlatig with new eyes. Tlatig wanted a family? That was her greatest longing, and the price she was willing to pay for this family? Tlatig had never seemed like the mothering type. On the other hand, from Tlatig’s slightly embarrassed look, Teia could tell that she felt exposed from having shared so much—but that she shared anyway, when sharing made her feel so awkward, told Teia that she was being given something precious.
Another Archer, Piper, stepped forward. She wore her hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and had the straining halos and lined face of a woman on her last year before Freeing. “I remember Massensen, and Ikkin, and Gwafa, and Mennad. Massensen defeated three great-horned iron bulls on the Melos Plain in the Jadmar Rebellion. Ikkin Dancing Spear killed the Jadmar’s war chief, the giant Amazul. Gwafa demolished the Nekril, the will-casting coven that laid siege to Aghbalu. Mennad gave his life saving the Prism in Pericol when he was there to sign the Ilytian Papers. All these heroes were one man. Massensen took a new name every time he performed another act that would make any other man a legend. Where others would take a name that celebrated their heroic act to remind people of it forever, Massensen did the opposite. He took a new, plainer name each time, and refused to become even a watch captain. He b
elieved that all glory should be reflected to Orholam, and that his own fame should be shared with his companions and his Prism. He was simply a Blackguard, and any Blackguard was his equal.
“Massensen reminds me that we wear black that we may serve in obscurity. We wear black that the light may shine the brighter. Massensen reminds me of duty with excellence.”
For some reason, it was only as Piper spoke that Teia finally stopped thinking about her bladder and was pulled into the words. These were some of the greatest heroes in history. These were people who had altered the course of satrapies, crushed kingdoms, saved Prisms and Colors, and fought monsters out of legends. This was the company she was being invited into. As an equal.
This was what she’d wanted since she could remember. All the misgivings and questions about herself faded. They would call her a slave, but she is not a slave who chooses to serve.
As she thought, heart swelling, a tear cold in the wind on her cheeks, the normally quiet Nerra had stepped forward. She smiled shyly. “I remember Thiyya Tafsut. She served all her days quietly, and was to retire at Sun Day on her fortieth year. She sought and received permission to become pregnant, as there was little light left for her. Pregnant, on the day before Sun Day, she hurled herself at a wight attempting the murder her Prism. She was killed, and she did not kill the wight in turn, but she slowed it enough that others did. Others in those circumstances would have hesitated, saved themselves, saved their baby. She did not. She reminds me that even those who are not great themselves can, through great sacrifice, change history.”
And that was the cost to join this company. What made them fearsome was the totality of their dedication, their readiness to pay all one could pay.
But in return, they bought a life that mattered.
Even a slave girl from the far reaches of the empire could matter.
Yes, her soul breathed, yes.